Our Defining Moments
by The Disgruntled Panda
Summary: With death knocking at his door, President Shinra knew he didn't have much time left.


**Our Defining Moments**

With his callused hands clasped behind his back, and his steely blue eyes firmly fixed against the vast city expanse below, he stared out the large glass window in contemplative fashion, peering across the quiet night sky. Tonight, it did its best to bathe the city with darkness, complementing the landscape with a subdued but perverse sense of corruption that had yet to reach it at the moment.

He heaved a sigh as he heard heavy footsteps that were betrayed by the grace that accompanied them. Only one man within the company's ranks was capable of such a feat.

"I was wondering when you'd arrive," he said without turning around.

The taller man stood by the door, unmoving, his resolute gaze able to be seen through the reflection of the window.

"Tell me… Am I the last one?" He didn't care for much else at the moment, but he needed to know at least that.

"Yes," came the deep voice that inspired so many in the past—a voice that was now lost to the depths of the corruption that they'd all birthed through a wanton lust for greed and power.

With a simple nod, he unclasped his hands and calmly walked to his desk, undisturbed by the sight before him, unaffected by his harbinger of death literally standing by his door. "Who was it," he asked quietly, pulling an elegant oak box out of his drawer, "that did me in?"

At first, he wasn't sure the other would reply but he finally did. "Palmer."

"Ah…" And here, he afforded himself a small smile as he opened the box to pull out one of his cherished cigars. They were reserved for special occasions, instances that defined him and the company with precise absolution. And since there was an unquestionable sense of pronounced finality that accompanied this moment, this was one of those times. Lighting the tip, he took several deliberate drags as he relished the fine tobacco, before blowing out perfectly spaced rings of smoke. "I always knew that man couldn't be trusted. Once a weasel, always a weasel." Then, after a moment's silence, he added, "Did you kill him?"

"No," came the short, uninterested reply.

This caused him to raise his thick eyebrows. "Truly? I assumed that given your recent string of actions, that response would've been automatic."

This time there was no reply.

"So…" And here, he began to pull out a fine bottle of liquor, one that had been handed down to him by his own father, one that he'd reserved for _the_ defining moment. He supposed this was it. "How does this play out?"

"Your story ends."

"But stories need to end with some form of riveting climax, wouldn't you agree?"

This seemed to finally prompt his silver haired assailant to step inside the room. His green, cat-like eyes remained unblinking however. "Your story has long run its course, _Mr. President_," he said, his last two words containing an unmistakable venom and contempt.

President Shinra nodded softly and slunk back in his chair, holding up the fine crystal glass containing the aged liquor in front of his nose as he took a moment to enjoy the strong aroma that burned his nostrils. "This right here"—and he looked at the caramel colored liquid with respect—"this is synthesis of sin and virtue. This is years and generations of men, the sweat of their brow, and their tireless endeavors, all coalescing into this fine beverage." And with that, he took a long and thoughtful sip, closing his eyes for a moment as he savored the rich burn that slithered down his throat with the combined fire and ice of Ifrit and Shiva's illegitimate child, should he have existed.

When he opened his eyes, he found his silver haired assailant standing directly in front of his desk, the tip of his elongated blade inches away from his throat.

"Care for a glass?" he asked, pointing to the bottle. "Great men always conclude their business over a fine bottle of liquor. This is no different, wouldn't you say?"

"Great men?" His hard expression didn't waver despite the scathing tone in which the question was delivered. "And what gives you the idea that you're worthy of such a title?"

"Come now Sephiroth… We are who we are, characterized by our defining moments." His steely blue eyes penetrated the unforgiving and unrelenting glare of the mako infused ones belonging to his his former, star general.

"The only moment you should be concerned with right now, is the present. All else are irrelevant."

"Ah…" President Shinra took another savory sip before wagging his finger. "But that's where you're misinformed, General."

"I no longer respond to trivial and frivolous military designations. They are beneath me."

He ignored his remark and smiled. "You see, _General_…"—and here, upon seeing Sephiroth's left eye twitch ever so slightly, he afforded himself a rare moment of satisfaction—"We're only as great as those fleeting moments of sculpture allow us to be. For instance, though you only seem interested in this particular moment and its conclusion, you fail to realize the impact of the preceding events that led us here. The significance of them escapes you."

"The only significance of concern is seeing your futile life come to an end."

President Shinra allowed a short chuckle to escape his lips as his eyes, ever so discreetly, traveled down for a second. "Tell me Sephiroth… what happened? What happened to my prized SOLDIER, the man who picked this company up and barreled it through obstacles deemed impossible to overcome, the man who influenced so many, the man who defined excellence? Where is that man?"

Sephiroth remained quiet, his stoic glare unbreakable. Not once did his eyes blink while he firmly kept the cold edge of Masamune mere breaths away from the President's neck.

"Explain to me," and here, President Shinra's eyes softened, if only a little, "how I failed my most prized colleague. Where is it that I went wrong?" he asked, showing genuine, if rare, remorse.

Sephiroth never flinched, his cold eyes radiating death. "Posturing won't save you. But in the spirit of granting a dying man his defining moment, I'll give you the satisfaction of writing yours."

President Shinra's face instantly underwent a metamorphosis of stormy emotions until, stripped of everything it could possibly convey, it finally settled on a hardened apathy that was reflected back by Sephiroth's countenance. "What exactly, do you think you'll accomplish on this bent path of terror and destruction? Aren't you aware that all parasites, in one form or another, are inevitably neutralized?"

This marked the first change in Sephiroth's expression, who adopted a subtle scowl. "Parasite? How incredibly mistaken you are. I am restoring balance. It is the will of the planet."

"The planet?" President Shinra chuckled. "You think the planet orders a purging of all life forms, of its children, of the product of its labor? Are you truly that lost that you can't see the inanity of your ways?"

Sephiroth stood still for a moment, as if contemplating the words, before he drew back his blade and walked over to the window, gazing out into the smog covered sky. "The product of its labor, Mr. President?" He looked into his eyes spitefully. "Observe the scene before you and tell me this is what the planet had in mind. Corruption, pollution, sadism, violence, and a reckless apathy towards the fabric of the planet, that is your legacy. That is the legacy of your kind. Tell me then, who really is the parasite?"

"My kind?" President Shinra raised his eyebrows. "My kind? Will you not be joining us then, in your clearly warped character assassination? I find it rather convenient that you choose this time to exclude yourself from the rest of us. What are you then?"

For the first time, Sephiroth's lips tugged upwards in the slightest of cruel smiles as he moved away from the window. "I am the physical manifestation of the planet's anger. It has put up with your abuse for countless ages, and now, has ordered me to put a stop to it. With Mother's help, we will return what's rightfully ours back to the planet and in doing so; we will reach the Promised Land."

President Shinra finally realized then and there that this great man was now beyond reasoning, infinitely lost to the pits of madness. Using his free hand to carefully navigate where Sephiroth couldn't see, his fingers found a familiar friend in a sawed off shotgun taped to the bottom of the desk. "Someone will stop you."

"Is that so?" Sephiroth began moving towards him as he brought his blade up. "Should the chance present itself, you will not be around to see it."

"Maybe not, but someone will stop you. It's inevitable, like the rising and setting of the sun, and the return of one's soul to the lifestream."

"And are you ready to join it now as well?"

"I am," President Shinra said with a smile. "But not before I have my last defining moment." With that, he quickly drew the shotgun and fired two rapid shots.

The bullets thundered from the chamber with an unrivaled ferocity as the room was engulfed in a haze. The smoke took several moments to clear, during which time Sephiroth instinctively reacted by blocking the first bullet with the side of Masamune. The shot rang melodically as it ricocheted off his blade and pierced the window, shattering both it, and the encompassing silence within the office that was now invaded by the shrill cries of the wind.

He'd positioned his blade for the second shot as well, but it never came, instead travelling up President Shinra's mouth and into his head, rendering him lifeless as he collapsed in his seat, with the roof and walls behind him now decorated with the red of his trials.

When the scene finally achieved clarity, Sephiroth glared at the fallen body before him, unsure of just how to react. Up until then, he had done a commendable job of reining in his emotions, of carrying out his objectives with a frightening dedication not deemed possible by mere mortals. It was why he'd believed he'd truly ascended past that classification. But now, staring past the frozen smile and into the empty blue vessels of the fallen man, he felt himself losing grip of his practiced apathy as his mind was flooded with something else. He was—if only for a brief moment—angry. He was angry for having failed to extinguish the President himself. He was angry for letting the man escape with the satisfaction of writing his own closing scripture.

_Leave him, our work is done_. The familiar maternal voice inside his head scratched and clawed at his mind.

"Mother, he did not grant me the satisfaction of killing him," he said, his eyes never leaving the disfigured corpse now rotting before him.

_There are more important matters that need your attention now. Leave him._

And so he did, but not before opting to have his final say with the President as well—his own closure. And so, as quickly and gracefully as he'd sliced through the entire Shinra department moments earlier, Sephiroth moved around the desk, standing directly behind the chair of the iconic man. With firm resolution, he gripped Masamune tightly and—channeling years of restrained emotions—plunged the six foot long blade straight into the back of the old man, puncturing both him and the desk.

"This is my defining moment." And with that, Sephiroth had shed the final ties with the company that had given birth to him.

* * *

_This is my first story back here in ages. Thanks once again to Pendrum for taking time to edit. Any reviews left behind will be much appreciated. Thanks!_


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